


Inanimate

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Disturbing Themes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-26
Updated: 2009-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So what," Dean says numbly. "You're offering to <i>take one for the team</i>?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inanimate

  
Dean thinks maybe the only time you're really allowed to do crazy things is right on the edge. Ready to fall off, five minutes to the apocalypse, no waiting. Maybe then all bets are off.

So he does what he wants, what he's wanted to do for _weeks_ now, anger sliding into affection, and confusion, and finally into need.

In a rain-drenched motel in the middle of- god knows where - Dean takes Castiel's utterly unfathomable face between his hands, and kisses him. One quick, hot press of mouth, as much as he dares, reckless enough that he dares more than a handful of seconds. Castiel's mouth is warm, soft, and completely still.

Dean pulls back, pulls away like his hands might burn, swears under his breath, and drags a hand over the back of his head, mouth still tingling with after-echoes, edge of a laugh on his tongue, like he can brazen it out if necessary, but he crushes it back, pushes it down.

"I'm sorry," it's rough and not enough, not nearly enough. "That was stupid, I'm sorry." He looks up, doesn't even know what expression he's wearing, but willing to pay for it anyway. But Castiel doesn't look pissed, he doesn't look disgusted, he doesn't look anything at all.

"You don't have to apologise, you're more than welcome to touch me Dean," he says quietly.

"I didn't want to, I don't know, _offend_ you." Dean says stupidly, for want of a better word, something that better describes what this feels like. It's the truth enough that it doesn't sound like a lie though.

There's a slight frown between Castiel's eyes now.

"You couldn't offend me, I process sensation...differently to you, and some I don't process at all. I'm simply existing inside this body, not living in it. And I cannot become sexually aroused."

Dean's not sure if it's the strangely flat admission, or the complete lack of reaction that makes him feel like an idiot. Doesn't like the feeling at all, never has done, no matter what anyone else thinks.

"What you don't feel anything at all?" He's mostly joking, thinks he's mostly joking, though there's something in the words that sounds a lot like accusation. He's not sure where it comes from, not sure he likes that it's there.

"No," Castiel says quietly, and Dean is almost certain he imagines the hint of polite apology. "I don't, I can't, not like that."

Dean shakes his head, as if to protest, like he knows better, like he knows anything at all. But he remembers, because Anna told him, all frustrated sorrow, and pity, that angels couldn't feel, not like them, different skin, different needs, different rules. And he'd made enough jokes to Uriel, enough digs at their complete and utter lack of the ability to understand what it was like to _need._

So how could this be any different? Why would he think this would ever be different?

Castiel tilts his head to one side, looks at him, maybe looks all the way through him. "But it's a distraction to you, this need, and it's no longer safe for you to bed random strangers," he looks down, almost absently. Like he's forgotten what he's wearing, or _who_ he's wearing. "If this vessel is appealing enough to fill your need, it seems sensible to offer."

Dean bites back the protest that it's not the vessel, not just the vessel. That it's _Castiel,_ that it's everything, and- god damn it- he's sorry if he's not evolved enough that his brain doesn't know how to make it something other than sex, other than _mostly_ sex. He wonders where that defensiveness comes from, and thinks it's ingrained, thinks it's a part of him that he'll never shake free. Or maybe he's just angry at his own response to the suggestion.

"So what," Dean says numbly. "You're offering to _take one for the team_?" He thinks he tries for a rough laugh, but it just comes out as noise. "You can't be serious?"

"You have my permission," Castiel says carefully.

"To what, _use you_?" Dean spits, insides coiling up in what he desperately wants to be anger at the thought. "Do you have any idea how wrong that sounds?"

"Your touch would not offend me, neither would it compromise me, if that's what worries you."

It does, and Dean swallows under the assurance. Hates the fact that Castiel reads him in pictures, in looks, more easily than anyone else has ever done, he hates it and he's _terrified_ by it. But sometimes he's so fucking _grateful_ he doesn't have the words.

Not grateful now though, not even close.

"That's not the damn point," Dean snaps. "If you don't want it-"

"I'm incapable of wanting it," Castiel says easily. "But you do." Like that's all that matters.

"Is that why you're offering?" Dean asks tightly, and the pause is too long, that soft, heavy pause that always means the answer is something Dean doesn't want to hear. He thinks this is Castiel still keeping him safe, keeping him ready for whatever crap they want to throw at him next. But that doesn't make it alright, shouldn't make it alright.

He won't let himself think about it, knows himself too well. Not a lot of respect there and Castiel's watching him, waiting, curious and still.

Dean thinks about it anyway, about the wide curve of Castiel's mouth, the steady strange wrong-blue of his eyes, and his narrow wrists, and the way, when he touches Dean it feel like he might fall off the edge of...something.

Castiel sees him looking, and Dean wants his face to be anything other than that curious patience. He wants to paint something else there, but he's afraid that he can't. That he'll break something trying.

"Yeah, yeah that's what I want," Dean hates how dry his voice sounds, hates the jump in his words, ragged and honest and _raw._ He thinks he hates himself for admitting it too.

Castiel's hands spread the edges of his coat, slide it free, and Dean's watching with a sense of dislocation, of _disbelief,_ until the coat is laid across the table, and Castiel's long hands drag his tie away in one endless blue line, then start on the buttons of his shirt.

"Jesus," it's more breath than word. "You're serious, you're actually-" Dean shakes his head. But he can't manage any more words, not a one.

Castiel's hands are still moving, strangely smoothly on the clothes he's been wearing for months, the clothes he's never changed, that have never seemed entirely _real._

But they're real now.

"Wait, just wait." Dean takes two steps forward, catches the white material, he bunches it in his hands before he thinks about it, takes a breath and then lets it out again.

He takes another step and Castiel tips his head back, just a little, to watch him.

"Tell me this is ok." Dean's voice sounds...god he's ashamed of how it sounds.

"It's ok," Castiel says smoothly, no hesitation, no accusation.

Dean breathes across his face, kisses the relaxed line of his mouth, then again, Still not entirely convinced that he can, that he's _allowed._ His hands release the material of his shirt, and slide up into his hair, to find the weight and shape of it. He uses it to pull Castiel's head back, just a little farther, finds that the vulnerable line of throat makes him greedy. It wakes a steady low throb of arousal, that has him half hard before he kisses him a third time.

And Dean thinks this will wreck him. Thinks it will wreck him _completely._

His hands drop again, under the shirt, and Castiel's skin is soft under Dean's hands. It's warm and alive, if strangely resistant to the pressure of his fingers, and utterly unresponsive. But he doesn't protest the touches, doesn't stop Dean from tugging his shirt free of his pants in quick, greedy pulls. And then he's pushing it back off of his shoulders, flinging it away. Before digging a hand in his impossible hair, drawing his head back so he can press into his mouth again, he pushes it open this time, and Castiel lets him. Let's him wreck its softness with his own tongue and teeth.

Dean's other hand drops, find Castiel's belt, and drags it open in two quick movements, knuckles brush-sliding across the skin on his stomach, and that's a sliver of sensation, of frustrated want, that Dean can't ignore. Can't even think past, he has to touch, has to.

He lets the belt hang free while he digs his hand inside the pants, finds warmer skin, hair under his nails, and the soft fragile length of his cock. He can't hold back the noise he makes into Castiel's mouth, a tight little groan, before he's pushing Castiel's pants free of his hips.

Castiel lets Dean strip him without shame, and Dean touches him, because he can, steering him back in small steps to the bed, silent and obedient between Dean's hands. He goes back, goes down when Dean pushes, sliding back on the sheets in one smooth movement.

Dean follows, stripping shirt and jeans free, before pressing Castiel into the bed, hands on his wrists, and his waist, then pulling his head up again, kissing him again, until his mouth is wet and Dean's jaw aches under the burn of his skin. He's shamefully hard against the shape of him, wants so much, so many damn things, still half convinced that he can't have them, that this is impossible.

Castiel doesn't move under Dean's weight, body loosely obedient wherever Dean pushes it. Like he's broken in some important way, but that quick flash of thought immediately makes him feel like a bastard, because Dean knows _he's_ the one that's broken. He thinks this proves it, and he hates it, hates it, hates that he can't _stop._ That he's still touching, just a fraction too hard, hands greedy on Castiel's bare skin.

He thinks he makes a noise he doesn't mean. It slides free on a breath, and it sounds like it _hurts._

Castiel's expression softens into something else, his lips part, words balancing on the edge.

But Dean lifts a hand, presses it down over his mouth, afraid that it will be something he doesn't want to know, something he _can't_ hear.

Castiel stares silent assent at him, and when Dean moves his hand he doesn't try to talk again.

Castiel is the one spread on the bed like he's fallen, all vulnerable skin that should be bruising under Dean's hands. But Dean's the one that feels naked, that feels almost helpless. He's lost in the soft-hard feel of Castiel's thighs, almost certain that, if he pushes, Castiel will open his legs around him, and give him anything he wants.

And Dean wants that, doesn't know if he's wanted it for weeks, or days, or just minutes but he wants it more than he has the breath for. He wants to spread him open, and slide inside him and Castiel is just going to give it to him, silently, obediently.

Though his body doesn't even work, cock soft at his groin, no matter how many times Dean's hand strays there. Half certain that he can draw some sort of reaction out of him. Because it's almost painful to be the only one needing, the only one who's _hard._ It feels wrong no matter how many ways he turns it.

Castiel's face is almost entirely empty of expression. There's a faint curiosity in his eyes every time Dean looks at him, something innocent, something _dutiful_ , and Dean stops looking because he can't fucking bear it.

He reaches down instead, digs through the bag beside the bed for something to use, and pretends his hands aren't shaking.

Castiel moves his leg under the encouragement of Dean's hand, one long easy movement, and Dean doesn't know how he can still look so serene like that. Like this doesn't even matter. But Dean wants him, a fierce long ache of it, that's never been this sharp, or this hot.

He makes a mess of his hand when the bottle opens jerkily, digs his fingers too hard into Castiel's thigh, before pushing two fingers inside him.

Dean reacts in his place, long low groan at the impossible obscenity of it all. He's breathing too hard, flare of warmth and urgency into Castiel's relaxed mouth, words brushing his lips that he'll never admit to, while his fingers push in, and in, and Castiel takes _everything._

Dean's so hard he has to press his cock into the bare skin of Castiel's thigh, he lets it ache there in quick, angry throbs while he pushes another finger inside. He can't look at his face, can't look at him, because he thinks there should be accusation there, but he knows he'll see nothing instead.

His hands push Castiel open while he slides up, leans in close, one hand stroking over himself in quick shivery pulls, before he's leaning in, pressing in.

Castiel feels human inside, burning hot, and too tight round the first push. He doesn't make a sound, even when Dean slips in too fast, presses deep.

A groan slices out of him, because he likes that just a little too much, the way Castiel's legs spread silently for him like he _owns_ him. The suggestion that maybe he could make this rough, could make it hurt, and Castiel wouldn't care, wouldn't even feel it.

It makes his breath ragged, makes him wrong, wrong, so wrong, and he hates himself a little more. Hates himself but doesn't stop, presses his fingers in where he can. Loses himself in the rhythm of it, every push driving him closer to the edge.

He knows his hands are too tight, and his hips are too rough, breathing down into Castiel's mouth where it's soft, and easy to push open over and over. He makes it wet, a messy thrust of tongue, and teeth at the edge of his jaw. He leaves it half open, shine of saliva on that soft mouth, and Dean has to wonder, feverishly, what it would look like stretched open round his cock.

There's a long broken stutter in his rhythm, that has him swearing, has him groaning and lost for a dizzy second. He wants this because he's weak, because he's human and he needs this, he fucking needs it, so much it hurts.

His hands spread Castiel's thighs just a little wider, makes every new thrust feel too heavy, and too hard.

He thinks he's punishing him for something that isn't even his fault. Punishing him for being something Dean can't _have._ But he gets lost in the way Castiel's body moves under every thrust, loose-limbed and easy, and fucked all the way open.

Dean knows he shouldn't- it's a dark twist of wrong that he's getting off on this. But he's too close to care now, all ragged edges and shame, teetering right on the brink.

He pushes in too hard, can't stop the shaky mess of a groan when he presses Castiel down into the bed, presses _into him_ and comes, and it feels like a fucking desecration.

Dean hangs on the edge, then falls, hands on Castiel's skin, holding himself up while he breathes, loose, shaky breaths. He tips his head forward, staring down at the warm, human length of Castiel's chest, the outflung, almost fragile, length of his arm- He pushes himself up and away, body sluggish and trembling. He slides to the edge of the bed, still breathing through shocky, half-ashamed, little twitches of pleasure, pulse roaring in his throat.

He can hear his own breathing, can feel sweat cooling on the back of his neck, can feel the smooth ache in his thighs, the stiffness of his hands, and the looseness of every muscle in-between. He can feel his own skin, steady prickles of sensation.

Dean can feel _everything._

Castiel moves behind him, slide of bare legs on the sheets.

"Don't say anything," Dean says hoarsely. But it's more desperate plea than demand. Because he thinks anything, any words at all, will be wrong.


End file.
